


Guardian Angel

by waterfallliam



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Action, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 09:41:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16385582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterfallliam/pseuds/waterfallliam
Summary: There was no whistle of a handgun silencer, but the second sniper had definitely stopped shooting. The glint was gone, and he was safe, if only for a moment. He scanned the roofs, squinting between the stepped gables. He could see two figures, silhouettes against the harsh sun. One was holding a weapon, while the other used the powerful slope of his shoulders to land a mighty punch. Who was he?





	Guardian Angel

**Mallory**

 

“Good morning Mr. Blofeld,” Mallory said, voice crisper than the paper white shirt against his skin.

“M, the second,” Blofeld nodded.

“Do you know why it’s a good morning,” Mallory continued, unbuttoning his jacket as he sat down. “Because in less than hour you’ll be leaving here, and going to some dark hole no one will ever think to dig you out of.”

Blofeld only laughed, the chains tying him to the floor rattling as his body wheezed. “We’ll see.”

With the secrets Blofeld still kept, Mallory knew the truth of his promise was as steady as newly formed ice. But with Bond in the wind, someone had to see to dramatics.

“He’s still not back, is he?” Blofeld asked, tilting his head at the mirror that dominated the room. “I’d feel it if he was watching.”

“This exit interview is merely a formality, as mandated by the ASC act. A last chance for you to divulge any information that may give us reason to re-evaluate your case.” His hands itched to close his jacket, to leave this sterile room for his sterile flat. To sink into sheets that Bond had never slept on.

“Any information?” Blofeld smiled, as if he was still on the verge of pulling the strings of everyone in the entire world.

Mallory refrained from pushing his palms into fists. Only one man knew him well enough to tug and unravel him. It would stay that way. “Any relevant information.”

“He used to cry, late at night when he thought no one was awake. It lasted for months”

Moneypenny had told him he’d been Bond’s brother for two years. She’d laid out a map of pain from his instatement into the double-0 program to the present day that made Mallory wince.

“Any information relevant to national security,” Mallory amended. He knew Bond liked people to consider him a weapon, not a person. A powerful tool, to be trusted and used often.

“All of his stunts are government approved?” Blofeld said.

Mallory didn’t dignify him with an answer.

“Is that what you are to him, his government? The only _man_ he could ever answer to?”

The question was more heavily loaded than the SIG he used to carry. There was no familiar groove in the grip, nowhere to hold onto but himself as Blofeld tried to pry him open.

“Do you want to know what he said to me, on the bridge? Hm?”

The ground crumpled beneath Mallory. Of course he wanted to know. That wasn't even a question. He wanted to know every other frivolous thought that passed through that man’s head. But he’d be damned if he let it show.

“Is it a relevant threat to national security?” In that moment, Mallory felt the full force of his hate for the exploitation of bureaucracy seeping into the floor. Paperwork was well and boring, but they were Secret Service, they had to be accountable. They had to be useful to the people they served. But this? This was a mockery; this was Blofeld using decency to try and get one last jab in.

 _That’s how the game is played,_ Mallory reminded himself, but sometimes he wished for a villain who was above all that. Sometimes he wished for the clarity of to shoot or not to shoot and nothing else.

“No, I think not.” Blofeld took his sweet time curling his lips around the words. “But I'm going to tell you anyway.”

Mallory swallowed back the sigh rising in his chest. His throat was the dam between dignity and the unkempt mess the British Intelligence Service found itself in. _Turmoil,_ he had told the Home Secretary, _is to be expected after such an event._ Never mind that they had successfully stopped the end of civilisation as they knew it. Never mind that they had done it despite being thrown under the bus. Never mind that not only Queen and Country had lost someone irreplaceable that day.

Blofeld kept smiling at him, like a doll who knew no other expression. He looked as vacant and Mallory felt. Mallory swept his hand in front of him, smoother than a creek on a summer’s day.

“I have better things to do,” Blofeld said. Every word enunciated clear as glass, and just as sharp. Bond had said that, and then he’d gone and kissed Dr. Swann, Mr. White’s daughter– Madeline, as he undoubtedly called her.

Blofeld’s laugh slowed the walls that had begun to slide inwards. “Guess he’s done with you, no?” Another laugh.

“If that’s all you have to say for yourself, Mr. Blofeld, then this interview is over.” He was going to stand, do up his jacket, smooth out the wrinkles, then turn on his heel and never listen to a word that man said again.

“Yes, yes,” Blofeld replied, maintaining an unaffected air despite his beige jumpsuit and non-existent future.

“Very good. Goodbye, Mr. Blofeld.” His office was waiting for him.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Bond**

 

“Where are we going?” Madeline asked when they finally left the sweltering city of London behind them.

“Where have you always wanted to go?” Bond replied, not taking his eyes off the road.

“It shouldn't just be my choice.”

Bond didn't say anything this time. When he couldn't find the right words, it was easier to stay silent.

“Unless you’re not coming with me,” she guessed.

“I'm sorry, it wouldn't have worked between us.” He manages to keep the sarcastic edge to his voice firmly lodged behind his teeth.

“Did you know that from the start?”

He knew it hadn't been his choice to make. But was this pain worse than death? Hadn't it been his job to save people?

She takes his silence: first, second and third helping. “I was going to tell you the same.” He glances at her out of the corner of his eye. Her face is a glacier.

“We could have had a honeymoon of sorts, but this isn't built to last. I want to be as free of this life as I can be,” she said.

That Bond didn't was left unsaid. The perfect opportunity to die hadn't been enough for him to turn his back on the only life he had ever known.

“I'm not sure we would have made it even that far,” Bond concedes. In the field, it was different.  It was a means to an end, a manipulation tactic he tucked away in the same pocket as his license to kill.

"Then I'd like to go the airport."

He made the next turn for Stansted.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Mallory, again**

 

It started in Amsterdam. Of course, the first time he left the all familiar routes of office to flat, office to restaurant to flat, flat to tailors to office—of course that’s when it’s happened. Mossad and AVID were teaming up and wanted MI6 on board, something about previous experience with their target. He wasn't really sure why he was here in the first place, there were people more qualified than him. He should probably just be grateful the other services are still talking to him.

It didn't explain why he had to travel. Moneypenny had said they’d insisted due to lingering distrust of encryption and digital channels, after all, the whole world in the shadows had been quite shaken up by Nine Eyes, but still... Amsterdam. It’s was stop for the night on their way to The Hague, then the AIVD headquarters. But why had they—

Why they had requested him personally seemed somewhat obvious now that he was being shot at by a sniper on the roof. Step right, run behind a car—was there any makeshift weapon better than his umbrella anywhere in sight? He was sure there was a protocol for this kind of situation, sure the paperwork was going to be a nightmare—when was it not—but there would be time for that later.

He dodged bullets on the narrow pavement between the houses and the canal, his shined shoes looking oddly out of place as he danced in and out of the fire. The brick was rough underneath his palm as he grabbed for it. He felt the prick of a graze, but there was no time for the irritant of pain. He had but a moment to catch his breath.

As he gulped down air, the pieces clicked into place. Spectre had infiltrated everywhere, and no one had been expecting them to just disappear into the woodwork. They were making a move. Somehow, this trap of theirs had got by MI6. They were spread too thin, still lacking a decent budget; too many losses in too short a time.

It took him a few seconds to realise the glint in the corner of his eye was the telescopic optic of a sniper rifle, but it was a few seconds too late. He could still think—it hadn't been a shot to the head. He reached for his stomach, peeling back his jacket to look for the tell-tale patch of blood. There was nothing. He couldn't feel a bloom of sticky heat. Why hadn't the sniper taken another shot? Where had the first one landed?

Another shot cracked the brick closer to his head. There was a time for questions, and there was a time for running. He ducked back out across the street, heading for coverage behind the cars. A Fiat was closest. A shot hit the car just a few inches from his ear as he dived behind it. If the other sniper shot again he could dive into the water, try and hide under the next bridge—

There was no whistle of a handgun silencer, but the second sniper had definitely stopped shooting. The glint was gone, and he was safe, if only for a moment. He scanned the roofs, squinting between the stepped gables. He could see two figures, silhouettes against the harsh sun. One was holding a weapon, while the other used the powerful slope of his shoulders to land a mighty punch. Who was he?

The next shot brought Mallory back to the problem at hand. He’d caught his breath for long enough. Using his briefcase as a shield he half crouched, half ran further down the street. He had Moneypenny on the line: she was racing towards him in a Mini as fast as she could. In his mind’s eye he could see her taking the turns too fast, her hand that wasn't on the wheel motioning for pedestrians to get out the way. It wasn't going to be fast enough.

Another close call and his hair was falling into his eyes. The metal of the car he was leaning against was hot against his wrist, baking in the midday sun. He’d just as well served himself up on a silver platter, hadn't he? It had to be hubris, imagining a life without mistakes. _Excellence is in not making mistakes, resilience is in handling them_ , Mallory thought, the words floating up inside him from fuck knows where. This was no time to wax poetic.

His breathing was ragged as he used the handle of his umbrella to smash the window of the car. A shot hit the Smart beside him. _Damn lucky_ , Mallory thought. The next part wouldn't be so easy. He pried the door open carefully, just wide enough for him to wiggle his shoulder through. He cursed again as his hand met air.

They drove on the other side of the road in Europe. Never mind that Amsterdam was mostly a maze of one way streets, the steering wheel was still going to be on the other side. He wedged the door open a bit further, passing his umbrella from one hand to the other and hooking it around the wheel. With a tug, the wheels turned. Now came the tricky part.

He fumbled as his arm twinged, irritation from his old bullet wound. If only Bond were fighting alongside him this time. The cruel set of his lip was more reassuring than any firearm.

A long suffering groan was wrenched from him as he pushed the car, it’s movements slow, but destination unquestionable: the canal. Another heave and it was almost there. The window above his head shattered into a thousand tiny weapons, raining down on him. It was now or never. He pushed one last time, and ran in the opposite direction.

Shots rang out as he heard the unmistakable splash of the vehicle hitting the water. Three steps to go. He felt the air grow hot by his thigh. Two more.

His hands slammed against the glossy door. It was slick under his palms. He had made it. He was safe for now, invisible to the sniper.

Moneypenny was only half a minute away. The sniper would undoubtedly be gone before she arrived. Mallory was too tired to care. He knew who was behind the ambush—Spectre had their signature all over this. He didn't look forward to explaining to AVID how their system was still compromised. No one liked the bearer of bad news.

As he sped away to another safe house in Moneypenny’s Mini, his thoughts lingered on the man on the roof who had helped him. He had to be some kind of agent. Hell, he had seemed more like a shadow than a man. Something about him had been familiar. Something Mallory couldn't quite put his finger on. Was he built like someone from his old regiment? Was he looking for ghosts?

Whatever the answer, the search could wait until after he’d averted today’s diplomatic incident waiting to happen.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The next time he saw the man was in Berlin. This time he looked more like a ghost than a shadow as he weaved in and out of the mist.

The fog was so thick and heavy it was like driving through a cotton pad that was slowly being ripped to pieces. It didn't protect them when the bulletproof monstrosity of a four wheel drive hit them head on. Their driver was out cold and shots were being fired in the street. Mallory rolled his eyes as he began to look for a makeshift weapon.

They had caught four such attempts since Amsterdam, but luck always runs out eventually. That, and it was now clear there was a mole in their ranks. It would take two months to find her, another two days to turn her, but for now survival was the highest priority. His eyes met the brown ones of his BND contact, Amin, beside him, who was already pulling a gun out of her shoulder holster. He wondered how easily blood stains would come out of her sky blue hijab.

The trained agents in the second car behind them put up a valiant fight, but the loaded rifles of the enemy force were enough to subdue Mallory and Amin, but not before she’d taken three of them out with expert shots to the knees. Military precision and cleanliness had their advantages. He held his fists up as if he was sixteen and down the pub, unbeatable in the frailty of youth, but a slight shake of Amin’s head stopped him.

This time it felt more like a dream, the way the dark figures in the fog collapsed one by one. He had no answer for the questioning glance sent his way.

Even with the extra help, they were still devastatingly outnumbered. The ugly four wheel drive loomed in the corner of Mallory’s vision. It was the sort of move he normally frowned upon, but if there ever was a time to blow up a car, it may as well be now. Why not save their lives with a scalding ball of flame?

He tried his best at translating hot-wiring a car into frantic gestures. Amin nodded and threw her empty gun to the side. Crouching low, she pulled two knives from her boots. She used international military hand signs to tell him she would provide cover. It was far more elegant than his gesticulation.

She was as meticulous with her knives as with her gestures, taking on six men at once and holding her own. It gave him the time he needed to pry the fuel cap open. Sure, dipping the corner of his pocket square from Saville Row into the fuel tank was a waste of fine clothing, but more than worth it to save their lives. Reaching past the silver case he kept an emergency stash of cigarettes in, Mallory fished a cheap lighter out of his pocket.

Normally, the fact that he needed five attempts to coax a flame to life gave him ample time to reaffirm how badly he did want to smoke, thank you very much—but today every spluttering flame was another opportunity to get shot.

He scrambled, arranging the cloth and judging how long it would take. His steps were heavy as he lunged away, half delirious with the thought that he hadn't set it right, that this was surely and immediately going to be the end.

Suddenly there was a fierce pressure around his throat. Tensing his neck was a reflex, his hands already reaching for his attacker’s forearms so as to flip him. It was like trying to uproot a tree. Mallory pulled and pulled as his lungs burned. The silhouettes of Amin and her opponent parrying blurred, the silver of her knives like light on water.

The pressure tightened again, deadly like vines that strangle tree trunks, but more imminent, more personally brutal. Nature was a system unto itself, order from order and no blame or deserving, just life, the endless hark back to life. This, however, was as ugly as it got: two men fighting each other in the name of things they didn't really believe in. But, they were good at it. So awfully good at it.

Mallory’s vision began to fade into spots of black—he didn't have much time left. This was the moment for a desperate stab in the dark. Suddenly he remembered: he was wearing the shoes Q had given him for his last birthday. What a beautiful thing to believe in luck.

He stamped his right foot forcefully, activating the five second countdown. Unlike many of the gadgets other agents fancied, this one was far less combustible. He lined his heel up with the meat of his attacker's leg just in time for the needle to pierce his trousers. It would inject him with quadruple a lethal dose of cyanide directly into his bloodstream. From there it would go straight to his heart.

As if on cue, the pressure around his neck slackened, and when his opponent fell, he did not get up again. He met Amin’s eye as she pulled her knife out of her man’s throat, his blood mingling with the leftover rainwater when he collapsed. He felt rather than saw the explosion a little way down the street. It would send the Spectre agents running to regroup. They had done it.

Mallory spun around, his eyes darting from car to street sign to pavement to building to building to building—but there was no one else still standing in sight.

“Let’s clean this mess up,” Amin sighed as she wiped her knife off on her blazer. A few calls and a cleaning crew later, they had left just as permanent a trace as the morning mist.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


There was something familiar about the man in Amsterdam and Berlin itching at the back of his mind.

Most of his moves were standard, something any operative learns. But he had an understated flair, part old wounds but also, Mallory suspected, part character. There was only one man like that Mallory knew. He also knew it was impossible.

But then the man was there in Singapore, all in black on a motorcycle that he set up to crash into the failing helicopter. Mallory would have been toast, literally sliced like bread and cooked in the aftermath most probably. His job shouldn't leave room for heartache. Men like Mallory did not have guardian angels.

Or he’d always thought they didn't, until now. Three times was enough to consider a pattern.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Out of all the ways for them to finally make contact again, Mallory hadn't expected a call from London General. The woman on the phone had been polite but impatient, overworked and under appreciated. She’d told him that a man matching his description had been checked in the night before, matching blood type and everything.

He’d had a few matches before, so it wasn't reason enough to get excited. But Mallory hadn't seen him eight months, hadn't talked to him for over a year. Something had to give. Something other than the British government or the standards of clandestine operations everywhere. As much as Mallory hated to admit it, he needed a win.

He squinted under the fluorescent lights, ignored the squeak of his brogues against the linoleum. Elegantly slip past the bed being wheeled through the hall, flash his card at the guards and…

And there lay a mess of a man, one leg in a cast, bandages covering his chest, split lip, but very, very alive.

“James.” His voice cracks a split second before his composure.

“Hello, M. I would stand, but…” He gestures at his cast.

Mallory purses his lips. “I know it was you.”

It really wasn't the cleverest thing he could say. Bond hadn't been hiding who he was. He knew Mallory hadn't sent anyone to investigate him. It was the only thing he could say.

He sat down by Bond’s bed, pulling the chair so close his knees pressed right against it. Neither of them said a word as Mallory carefully took Bond’s hand in his. Out of the four scars on it, Mallory knew the stories of three of them.

“There are other agents,” Bond said a while later. It had started to rain, the faint pitter patter soothing to Mallory’s hollow ears.

“None are quite like you.”

Nor did anyone kiss quite like Bond either. Wilful yet gentle, it was like a dance they’d been practising for years, finally performed. It was deep, it was searching, it was downright dreamy. And, mostly importantly, it was just for the two of them.

**Author's Note:**

> i had fun writing this despite it taking two months. i hope it was an enjoyable read!


End file.
